


Wired up to detonate

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bartenders, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossover, Dancing, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:40:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://clocks.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://clocks.livejournal.com/"></a><b>clocks</b>: a Jamie McAvoy AU, in which there is a different first meeting.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wired up to detonate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocks/gifts).



> Written for [](http://clocks.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://clocks.livejournal.com/)**clocks** : a Jamie McAvoy AU, in which there is a different first meeting.

title: Wired up to detonate  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 1290  
fandom: McFassy  
characters: Michael Fassbender, Rose Byrne, Jason Flemyng, Caleb Landry Jones, Jamie McAvoy  
rating: PG  
notes: Written for [](http://clocks.livejournal.com/profile)[**clocks**](http://clocks.livejournal.com/): a Jamie McAvoy AU, in which there is a different first meeting.  
This is also a fic for [](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**cottoncandy_bingo**](http://cottoncandy-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: flower chain. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/208216.html).

  
“Where the hell am I supposed to be going again?” he says, out loud, though there is no one to hear him. He’s got the address loaded into his GPS and he’s fairly sure that it’s working as it should, but even as he follows the directions flashing up on his phone he can’t help but wonder about being played for a Halloween fool.

He’s about to very begrudgingly call up Rose for help when he hangs a left and – well, all right, that’s unexpected.

Even though he’s surrounded by the purr of the engine and by the roar of the wind outside his barely-open window, he can actually already hear the music coming from the brightly-lit house at the end of the block. Faint snatches, more a hint of the bass than anything else, really, and it sounds good enough to him that he rushes through the parking process and sits to take a deep breath, to take stock of himself before he joins the party.

He tweaks impatiently at his bow tie and smoothes down the lapels of his impeccably-cut tuxedo jacket before stepping out onto the sidewalk, the heels of his boots ringing softly as he gets to his feet.

Out here, in the crisp October night, the music is almost all: it fills him up, it pulls at him. Technically he’s a stranger at this party; his invitation comes by way of Rose, and she got _hers_ from one of the hosts, an up-and-coming kid named Nicholas. So he feels a little ridiculous and perhaps a little out of place, because he might be in a really sharp suit but he’s also carrying a squib/replica Walther PPK in his pocket, which means people will have precisely zero difficulty guessing who he’s come as, and it’s not really his style to be this blindingly obvious.

He has good memories of attending other parties as, among other things, a priest, a Roman legatus, and once, when he was feeling lazy but confident, as the Ninth Doctor (it helped that he’d had his hair buzzed really short at the time).

“Michael!”

He turns just in time for Rose to fling herself at him, laughing, so he catches her and laughs back and submits to her pinching the tip of his nose.

Jason follows more sedately, and offers a fist-bump in greeting. “You clean up nice, secret agent man,” he drawls as he adjusts the lace attached to the cuffs of his Edwardian-style formal coat, and then lights up an evil-smelling cheroot. The pungent smoke envelopes him in a few seconds.

“So do you,” Michael says, “Mister Rochester, I presume?”

Jason shrugs and nods.

“I don’t know why that whole outfit looks good on you; I could swear it shouldn’t.”

“Her idea,” Jason says, and points his cigarette at a still-giggling Rose.

Which – what is she wearing? Bedraggled lab coat over an artfully shredded button-down shirt, glasses sitting askew on her face, wrecked purple trousers...?

“Doctor Banner?” Michael asks. “I was under the impression that your, er, transformations tended to leave you – green. And naked? And male. But yes. Green.”

Rose grins. “Well I’m obviously not a male this time around. Now let’s see how many people I stump tonight. You don’t count, of course. You’re secretly the world’s biggest comics dork.”

“And proud of it.” He graciously allows her to undo and redo his bow tie, and then they’re promenading up to the sprawling porch, the steps of which are being guarded by a redhead whose multitudes of freckles are not completely hidden by his gory zombie get-up.

“Hi,” the redhead drawls. It’s easier to hear him now that the music has gone down to a more tolerable level. “I’m sort of the welcoming committee. Who’re y’all with?”

“Nick invited me,” Rose says.

The redhead grins and waves them in. “You’re good people then. Go right on in. I left Nick near the beer pong table, if you want to say hi.”

“Thanks.”

Michael follows Rose and Jason through a door that is so much a door as it is a curtain of multicolored streamers, paper chains, and origami flowers strung on heavy cord. One of the paper lilies falls out of its chain and at his feet, and he picks it up and peers at it closely. “Is it just me, or does this kind of decoration seem, I don’t know - ”

Something clicks, and he’s aware of Rose’s sharp startled bark of laughter, and there’s a cold shape pressed to his temple.

“I really want to know how you’re going to complete that sentence.” Sweet low voice, distinctive burr, dark interest.

Michael very carefully looks over his shoulder.

The woman holding him at toy-gunpoint is wearing a famous – or infamous – halter-necked dress, black covered in glittering green and gray and purple. It’s different from _Licence to Kill_ in that it cuts off a couple of inches above her knees, enough to show off her legs and, more prominently, a wide strap in webbing and leather: a thigh holster. Her hair is slicked neatly back from her face, and her blue eyes are bright with amusement and irritation.

Michael swallows and raises his open hands to shoulder level, palms out. “I’m guessing you have something to do with those flowers.”

“Astute deduction, Mister not-Bond,” the woman in the Pam Bouvier outfit drawls. “The entire door’s my handiwork.”

“How long did it take to finish all that?” Jason asks, sounding interested.

Michael can hear the slight smile in the woman’s voice: “Didn’t have much to do, so – three hours. I was feeling lazy. I might have done something else if people hadn’t been distracting me.”

“Impressive,” Rose says. “I’m Rose, and this is Jason, and the man you’ve got at gunpoint is Michael.”

“Are you, now,” the woman says. “Are you planning to say anything that might get you, I don’t know, _hurt_?”

Michael grins, and feels the devil rise up in him. “If you’re handing out the beatings, I just might.”

And then the woman laughs, clear bright trill in the room, and Michael doesn’t miss how several other partygoers turn to look in their direction. “Perhaps you’re worthy of your suit after all,” the woman says, and she steps around so now he can see her clearly. “Jamie McAvoy.”

“Fassbender,” he says. “Since you know my first name already.”

“Michael, yes, I was paying attention,” she says – but the last word is drowned out in a sudden burst of loud music. Rose laughs and grabs Jason’s hand, and they wade into the crush of dancers in fancy dress.

When Jamie beckons to him with two fingers Michael leans in, very carefully avoiding crowding her. “Don’t suppose you would know how to make a Vesper,” she half-shouts.

“Don’t suppose they have all the ingredients here?” he calls back.

That gets him a wicked grin, and deep dimples on either side of her mouth. “If you can settle for making it with Lillet Blanc....”

“Lead the way,” Michael says.

He can feel her eyes watching him as he ducks behind the bar, impish smile beneath ice-blue eyes as she hands him a flask from _somewhere_ on her person. He makes sure to put a little extra English on the cocktail shaker as he tosses it around carefully.

There’s a hot spark in the air as he pours out the Vespers – there’s just enough for the two of them – and slides her glass over to her.

“Adequate,” she says, grinning as she takes a long sip, and then a second.

Michael grins. “Glad to hear it. Dance with me?”

She licks her lips, and Michael is glad he can lean on the bar for support. “Thought you’d never ask.”  



End file.
